


Sticking To Their Tune

by paintingfire



Series: Future Hope, Past Regret [2]
Category: X Factor RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-22
Updated: 2011-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:41:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintingfire/pseuds/paintingfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Regret is the worst kind of killer. Because it doesn't kill it's victim. It simply murders them. Slowly. Eternally."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sticking To Their Tune

**Author's Note:**

> Was listening to a little Chet (big thing of mine), and suddenly thought I could do something to juxtapose the hope of the little throwaway ficlet/poem I'd written called **Peerless Maiden Kisses**

  
  


It feels like he's been in stasis forever. He's not been counting, at least not out loud. His inner metronome has remained ticking. Ticking and marking the passage of time. Holding him to this lonely earth by an unsteady beat. Waiting. Ticking.

=+=

Regret is the worst kind of killer. Because it doesn't kill it's victim. It simply murders them. Slowly. Eternally.

They definitely lied. Time does _not_ heal all wounds.

Time just means the wound has become part of you. It remains. You've just learnt to ignore its very existence.

The biggest dangers you look to protect yourself from. But one small thing can jostle your entire world. It can make your breath hiss venom between your suddenly clenched teeth. Scald the tender thin transparent layers that hold the rest of you together. Leave you unprotected.

Those unexpected, unavoidable things are the ones that cause the most damage:

A guitar string, broken. Pegged one-ended, suddenly without song.  
A tea bag, used.  Semi dry, string limp and stained.  
A popcorn kernel, misdirected. Ground into carpet by departing feet.  
A cigarette end, pinched.   Left submerged in murky shadows.  
An egg yoke, split.  Clouding a hotly spitting pan.  
A thread, caught.  Pulled, roughly unknitting.  
A bottle, capless.  Moisture denied drips exposed and flaking.  
A chilli pepper, bruised.  Weeping forlornly on the supermarket shelf.  
A JCB, abandoned.  Bucket stuck at half mast, job unfinished.

The mention of his name. The mention of your name together.

Then... Then comes the overwhelming recurring whiplash reaction.

The churning inside that engulfs you! Acid and bile warring together; never besting each other. The marrow in your bones speared and twisted by needling spikes; hooked in, never removed. Your teeth jarring in their gums, rootless and broken; mouth sliced, embouchure _never_ to return.

Your chest one vast exposed forever suppurating wound.

=+=

Because _you_ tried to pull your mask off, and _you_ failed!

 _You_ stood before him while running away inside!

Too afraid. You gripped too near the bone. Yanked down over drowned ears, shuttered eyes, frozen lips. Tore on down. Ripping flesh aside. Yourself apart.

Heart left forever raw. Crushed under by cowardly fate.

=+=

He still doesn't know that it's _his_ finger on your life support.

All _he_ knows is that there's now a protective barrier between you that he's not allowed to cross.

Even if he wants to...


End file.
